‘What about Saskia?’ he asked, stroking Chrissie’s hair. ‘She’ll love it here. What’s her favourite toy? What’s she into at the moment?’
‘Barbie,’ said Chrissie. ‘But that’s not the point, honey. She’s been through so much change this year already. What if—’
‘I’ll get her a Barbie room. It’ll be like FAO Schwarz in there! Her own pink, plastic palace.’
Chrissie smiled. ‘That’s so generous of you, sweetheart. But I mean, what if things don’t work out between us? You know, in the long term.’
Harry rolled on top of her, taking her face in his hands. Gazing deep into Chrissie’s eyes, he told her: ‘They will work out. You worry too much.’
They made love again, and Chrissie could feel her resolve start to weaken. But it wasn’t till the next day that it crumbled utterly.
‘Oh my God!’ she gasped, as Harry led her proudly into the His ’n’ Hers dressing rooms off the master suite. ‘What did you do?’
Along all four walls, newly built closets had been stuffed with the most beautiful preview pieces from the spring collections. Chrissie saw three Stella McCartney trouser suits, a beaded midnight-blue Bottega Veneta evening gown and a stack of exquisite taupe silk La Perla negligees before she’d so much as turned around. In the centre of the room, the pièce de résistance was a shoe ‘island’, stacked to shoulder height, and filled with every imaginable pair of shoes from all her favourite designers: Jimmy Choo, Jonathan Kelsey, Manolo, YSL, Zanotti, Louboutin, Chanel. There were pumps, boots, stilettos, wedges, in every conceivable colour and style. ‘It’s like Bergdorf’s in here!’ she exclaimed gleefully, picking up pair after pair with all the wonder of Dorothy touching her ruby slippers. ‘I feel like I walked into Carrie Bradshaw’s dream.’
‘It’s your dream now,’ said Harry. He seemed genuinely delighted to have pleased her. ‘Do you like it? Will you stay?’
It’s time I put myself first for a change, thought Chrissie. Just because Dorian let me down and took me for granted, it doesn’t mean every man will. In Chrissie’s book, nothing said commitment quite like $50,000-worth of shoes.
‘OK,’ she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him. ‘I’ll give notice on my lease in Brentwood this afternoon.’
Tonight was the first night Harry had gone out without her since she moved in. Chrissie had pouted dutifully when he told her he had a business dinner, but secretly she was relieved. As much as she enjoyed his company and the constant spoiling it entailed, she felt as though she hadn’t had a moment to herself in weeks. Once Saskia was in bed, she’d spent the early part of the evening playing dressing-up, finally trying on all of the exquisite evening wear Harry had bought her, and mixing and matching accessories with all the unrestrained delight of a little girl in her mommy’s dressing room. The red Carolina Herrera was her absolute favourite, sultry and dramatic, but not an overtly young woman’s dress. Jumping down from the armchair to take another look at herself in the mirror, Chrissie suddenly let out a bloodcurdling scream. A male figure was standing in the hallway behind her, half hidden in the shadows.
‘Get out!’ she shouted, fear and shock making her aggressive. How the hell had an intruder got in? Every inch of the grounds was tracked by security cameras. There must be some sort of fault with the system. ‘My boyfriend will be back any second. He won’t wait for the cops; he’ll set the dogs on you and let them rip you to shreds.’
‘Sounds painful.’ Dorian stepped forward into the light. ‘Your “boyfriend” doesn’t sound like such a nice guy.’
‘Dorian.’ Chrissie exhaled, adrenaline still coursing through her veins. ‘You scared the life out of me. What the hell are you doing here? If you’re looking for your daughter, she went to bed hours ago. Oh, sorry, silly me,’ she added spitefully, ‘of course you’re not looking for your daughter. Why would you be?’
Dorian walked past her into the drawing room. It was a beautiful space, grand without being cold, luxurious yet simple. He recognized Chrissie’s style instantly.
‘You did the room?’
She nodded. ‘I did the whole house.’
‘It looks great.’
‘Thank you.’
Dorian turned to look at her. How weird it was to be making small talk with the mother of his child, the woman he’d loved and lived with his entire adult life. But the weirdest part of all was, Chrissie didn’t feel like that woman. She felt like a total stranger. A beautiful stranger, he had to admit. In the clinging red taffeta, with her blond hair freshly coloured and cut in a gamine bob, with diamonds glinting in each newly exposed ear, she looked radiant. As happy and rested as Dorian was exhausted and defeated.
‘You look good, Chrissie.’
Chrissie’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What do you want, Dorian? I’m serious about Harry coming back. I’m expecting him home any minute.’
‘Home?’ Dorian shook his head. ‘You think this is home?’
‘It is home,’ said Chrissie defiantly. ‘Saskia and I are very settled here.’
‘Settled?’ Dorian laughed mirthlessly. ‘My God. You really think Harry Greene’s gonna marry you, don’t you? That the two of you will live happily ever after?’
‘The three of us,’ Chrissie corrected him. ‘And, yes, I do think that. For your information, Harry happens to be crazy about me.’
‘How stupid are you?’ Dorian paced the walnut floorboards in frustration. ‘Can’t you see he’s using you, to get at me?’
‘Right,’ sneered Chrissie, ‘because everything’s about you, isn’t it, darling?’
Against his better judgement, Dorian walked over and grabbed her by the wrists. As if by physically restraining her, he could force her to listen to reason. ‘Greene’s been out to ruin me for years. He knew how much I had riding on this movie. He wanted to kill it out of spite, and you, you, my own wife, told him how he could do it.’
‘Don’t be so melodramatic,’ said Chrissie. ‘I did nothing of the kind.’
‘You told him about my Sony deal!’ Dorian exploded. ‘You may as well have handed him my head on a plate!’ He let go of her wrists. ‘But you know what the bad news for you is?’
‘Enlighten me.’ Chrissie yawned.
‘Harry’s already got what he wanted. He doesn’t need you any more.’
‘Oh really?’ said Chrissie. ‘Then why do you suppose I’m still here?’
It was a good point. For a moment, Dorian couldn’t think of a rejoinder.
‘You’re right,’ Chrissie went on. ‘Harry doesn’t need me. He wants me. I’m having the best sex of my life, and I’m having fun, and so is Harry. And you can’t stand it.’
Bitch, thought Dorian. Despite everything, the sex gibe still hurt.
‘He played you, honey,’ he shot back. ‘He could see how needy you were and he exploited that weakness.’
This was too much for Chrissie. How dare Dorian show up here and patronize her?
‘Did it ever occur to you that maybe it was me who wanted to bury your goddamn movie, not Harry?’ she seethed. ‘The movie that you chose over our marriage, our family? What if it was Harry who helped me to keep Wuthering Heights on the cutting-room floor, and not the other way around? Because he cares about me. Because he loves me. D’you ever think of that?’
Dorian paused. Something in Chrissie’s face, the flash of fury in her eyes, made him think. Was she telling the truth? Was this whole thing her idea? Seducing Harry Greene deliberately so he could use his influence to nuke the Wuthering Heights distribution deal? All through today’s nightmarish round of meetings, Dorian had pictured Chrissie as Harry Greene’s gullible dupe: guilty, certainly, but only by association and only out of weakness. Greene had played on her insecurity. He had used her, groomed her, like a paedophile cynically befriending a wayward, needy child. But what if it was the other way around? What if Chrissie was the mastermind, and Greene the accomplice, albeit a more than willing one? Did she really hate him that much?
&
nbsp; ‘You’re very quiet all of a sudden.’ Chrissie walked over to the window. ‘Don’t you want to tell me some more about how Harry doesn’t love me?’
‘Would you listen?’ asked Dorian.
‘Of course not, and why should I? After what you put me through, belittling my career, flirting with your actresses, leaving me alone for months on end in that dump of a country you come from. If you’re here to tell me you want me back, then I’m sorry. You’re too late.’
‘Actually, that’s not why I came,’ said Dorian quietly. He’d come here to make Chrissie see the light, to try to get her to undo the damage she’d caused, if that were possible, or at least to see her new lover for the conniving snake that he was. But he realized now it was he who’d been labouring under a misconception. And not just about the collapse of his deal for Wuthering Heights. About his entire, twenty-year marriage.
‘I don’t love you, Christina. Not any more.’
‘Right.’ Chrissie rolled her eyes sarcastically, flopping back down into the armchair and making a big show of admiring the eight-carat diamond ring on her finger. ‘Of course you love me. You’re just bitter because you lost me to a better man.’
‘You’re wrong. I don’t love you,’ said Dorian. Looking her in the eye, without anger or fear, he realized fully that it was true. It was so liberating, he almost felt like laughing. ‘As for Harry Greene, the man isn’t capable of love. But I guess that’s something you’re gonna have to figure out for yourself.’
He turned and walked out of the room. Furious, and determined not to let him have the last word, Chrissie followed.
‘It won’t work, you know,’ she screeched after him. ‘You aren’t going to poison things between me and Harry.’
Dorian kept walking.
‘You’re finished in the movie business, you do realize that?’
He was almost at the front door now. With every step he took, Chrissie became more and more enraged.
‘Your precious fucking “masterpiece” will be lucky to make it to DVD. Are you listening to me? That whore Sabrina Leon can forget about her so-called “comeback”. She’ll be crawling back to the scrapheap where she belongs!’
Dorian was outside now, walking towards his car. At the top of the hill, he saw the flash and sweep of Ferrari headlights. Harry Greene, no doubt, heading home.
‘And you can forget about seeing Saskia,’ Chrissie shouted, in a last-ditch effort to get Dorian’s attention. ‘Harry’s already twice the father that you’ve ever been.’
It worked. Dorian spun around on his heel. He stepped towards her, so close that Chrissie panicked for a moment that he might be about to hit her. Instinctively, she shrank back, like a disturbed rattlesnake.
‘Nobody’s going to keep my daughter from me,’ muttered Dorian darkly. ‘Do you understand? Nobody. I’ll fight you for that child with my dying breath.’
‘What’s going on here?’ Harry Greene’s whiny, nasal voice cut through the night air like razor wire. Slamming his car door, he marched up behind Dorian. ‘Rasmirez. What the hell are you doing on my property?’ He put an arm around Chrissie, the picture of conjugal concern. ‘Are you OK, sweetie? Did he hurt you?’
‘Of course I didn’t hurt her,’ said Dorian indignantly.
‘Not yet,’ said Chrissie, returning Harry’s embrace. ‘I’m so happy you’re home, darling. Dorian was just leaving. Weren’t you?’
‘Sure,’ muttered Dorian. He wanted out of there as badly as anyone. Ignoring Harry, he walked back to his car without a word and started the engine. ‘I mean it about Saskia,’ he shouted out of the window at Chrissie as he pulled away. ‘You try anything and I will fight like you’ve never seen.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she called back, emboldened again now that Harry was here to protect her. ‘I guess I’ll see you in court then. If you can afford it.’
But her words were drowned out by the angry roar of Dorian’s engine.
He was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Three weeks later
‘Give me twenty more bicycle crunches. Go!’
‘Twenty?’ Sabrina rolled her eyes. Was he kidding? She’d hired Diego Vera because he was renowned as one of the toughest, most effective personal trainers in the business. And when it came to looking hot for Viorel, nothing less than perfection was gonna cut it. But after a solid hour of physical torture on the roof terrace of Vio’s Venice apartment, Sabrina’s stomach muscles were already spasming as if someone had injected her with arsenic. Her face was flushed an unattractive tomato red and and her sexy new Stella McCartney workout shorts and vest were as sweat drenched as an old dishrag. Diego seemed to have confused her with the Terminator, or Lara Croft, or some other superhuman, immune-to-pain cyborg.
‘I can’t, Diego. I’m serious.’
‘So am I,’ the stocky little Mexican grinned down at her, arms folded. ‘No such word as “can’t”. Now move before I change my mind and make it fifty.’
As much as she hated exercise, Sabrina couldn’t seem to shake the deep well of happiness that overflowed inside her. The irony was, for once she had plenty to bitch about if she wanted to. Three weeks ago – two weeks after their triumphant showing at Sundance – Dorian Rasmirez had broken the news to her and the rest of the cast that Wuthering Heights was not going to get a general theatre release. The movie that had consumed the last year of Sabrina’s life, and for which she’d been paid nothing but the promise of a career comeback, would never be seen by a moviegoing audience. Just like that, Sabrina’s comeback had turned into a comedown, and there was nothing she could do about it. Six months ago, this was exactly the sort of disappointment that would have sent Sabrina straight off the deep end, back into drugs and partying and all the self-destructive behaviour that had fucked her up so spectacularly in the past. But now – now that she was with Viorel, now that she was in love – it was amazing how easily she found herself able to shrug it off.
Sure, it was a shame Wuthering Heights wouldn’t make it. It was good. She was good. It would have been gratifying to have her performance recognized, to have an audience beyond the Sundance critics see what she was capable of as an actress. But there would be other opportunites. And even if there weren’t, she had more important things to think about now. Namely, herself in the leading role of her life, as Mrs Viorel Hudson.
I’m going to be a wife, she told herself joyfully. We’re going to be together forever, the most happily married couple in Hollywood.
She’d even begun to think about the possibility of children – not now perhaps, but a few years down the line: a troupe of perfect little Vios. As a teenager, Sabrina had made a private vow to herself that she would never become a mother. The thought of repeating her own mother’s mistakes was too terrifying, and the practical demands of a baby far too distracting from her all-important career, her relentless pursuit of fame. But now she felt differently. With Viorel’s love at home, she no longer needed the love of an adoring, faceless public with the same desperate violence that she had before. Wuthering Heights would be a commercial failure, but it remained the movie that had completely changed Sabrina’s life. For that she would be forever grateful.
‘Are we done?’ Hauling herself up to a sitting position after the final crunch, she looked at her trainer pleadingly.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Done,’ he said. ‘Except for stretches.’
On a sun-lounger at the far end of the roof terrace, Sabrina’s cellphone buzzed loudly. ‘Saved by the bell,’ she grinned. Ignoring Diego’s look of disapproval, she ran over to answer it. It was Ed Steiner, but he was talking so fast and so breathlessly that at first Sabrina couldn’t make out a word of what he was saying.
‘Slow down,’ she said, holding the phone a few inches from her ear, ‘and stop yelling. I can’t understand you.’
After a couple of attempts, Ed finally calmed himself enough to string a coherent sentence together. ‘The Academy released their nominations this morning,??
? he panted.
‘That’s it?’ laughed Sabrina. ‘That’s what you called to tell me? Jesus, Ed, I know it’s nomination day. I live in LA and I have a TV. Who cares?’
‘You do, sweetheart,’ said Ed. ‘Wuthering Heights got four nods. Four!’
Sabrina hesitated. This had to be a leg-pull. But Ed wasn’t the practical joking type. ‘It can’t have,’ she said sensibly. ‘You must have made a mistake.’
‘No mistake. Four nominations, including Best Picture and you for Best Actress.’
Sabrina’s heart started to race. ‘But … but … Harry Greene held our distributor to ransom.’
‘I know.’
‘But Ed, we’re going straight to DVD. Nobody’s even seen the movie.’
‘The Academy saw it. And it did get a theatre release, so technically it qualifies.’
‘You mean Sundance? That was nothing!’
Ed Steiner laughed. ‘Well, I guess it was enough for the critics. Look, trust me, I was as bowled over as you are. Who knows how it happened? We all thought the movie was as dead as a dodo’s dick. Maybe someone close to Oscar got pissed at being dictated to by Harry Greene? Or maybe it’s the Chinese Year of the Period Drama. Celeste’s also up for Best Picture.’
‘Who am I up against?’ said Sabrina on autopilot, her ambition kicking in as she began to realize this was actually happening.
‘Annie Hathaway, Emily Blunt for Mad Dogs, Laura Linney for that spy movie, and some Belgian chick I never heard of. The picture’s up against the Pixar Frog movie, Eastwood’s war film, Celeste and some obscure French shit that Woody Allen co-produced.’
‘Embouteillage,’ said Sabrina absently.
‘Yeah, whatever. But can you believe it?’ Sabrina had never heard Ed this excited. ‘We are back from the dead, sweetheart! We are fucking Lazarus!’
Sabrina looked up and saw that her trainer had packed up and left, leaving her alone on the rooftop of Vio’s apartment in blissful shock. She couldn’t wait to tell Viorel. He’d had a casting this morning but should be on his way back by now. For a split second it crossed her mind that he might be jealous, upset that she had been nominated rather than him. But she quickly dismissed the idea. Vio wasn’t like that.